


prompt fills: fallen hero

by impossible_rat_babies



Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Microfic, One Shot Collection, Other, POV Third Person, Snippets, hello it's poly hours heck yeah
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-02-18 13:10:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 17,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21661342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossible_rat_babies/pseuds/impossible_rat_babies
Summary: A collection of prompts I've filled for fallen hero!17/? prompts
Relationships: Argent/Sidestep (Fallen Hero), Lady Argent/Sidestep (Fallen Hero), Ortega/Sidestep (Fallen Hero), nb!Sidestep/Ortega
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	1. shimmer

New Years has never been like this before. Ortega had been cajoling Pollux for days about some fancy New Years party he had to go to and he needed someone to go with him so he wouldn’t look quite so dejected, quite so lonely. The Marshal all alone at some fancy party? He made it sound like the worst fat he could suffer. He’d all been short of begging when Pollux finally agreed to go. 

A small affair, closed to the press, and other Rangers would be there too. Loads of fancy rich people, but no cameras, just a quiet evening in some ridiculously expensive modern house overlooking Los Diablos. Nothing to worry about.

So why is he outside, leaning on the solid glass railing, watching distant fireworks light up the sky above Los Diablos? That’s right: he doesn’t belong here.

Not like this, not all dressed up in shimmering gold and black dress, tailored suit jacket pulled tight around him to keep the chill out. He’s been in fancy places like this before, stared at the countless guests as they passed under rich modern chandeliers and picked canapes off of silver trays. They never looked at him, eyes never settling on him even as he stared at them. Judging, mapping intentions, finding suspicious behavior and telling his handlers. He was a set piece, part of the scenery of the room.

A thing, nothing more.

Pollux blows cigarette smoke out into the air, watching the cloud dissipate. Several flights of stairs up the party continues, the music barely audible, the shuffle of minds much louder. A moment alone, quietly interrupted by feet on the stairs and a head filled with static and clouds.

“Hey there…” Pollux snuffs out the cigarette, Ortega sauntering beside him, leaning against the railing beside him.

“Hey yourself.”

“Anathema was wondering where you ran off to. Figured you would find the most out of the way place to be alone at.” Ortega lightly bumps in him the arm and the second button on his shirt is open; there was only one unbuttoned whey they arrived. Pollux bets on three being open by the end of the night. Ortega can’t resist.

“There were too many people by the pool.” Pollux remarks and Ortega snorts, looking out across the skyline. Pollux follows his eyes, staring at the shimmering lights painting across the whole valley–purple and green fireworks too–and far, far beyond. Far off to the coastline. 

Ortega’s sleeves are up and it still unsettles Pollux’s stomach to see where the grafts are–where the skin still hasn’t taken just yet. Two years and the skin is still different, still not what it should be. Pollux still gets nosebleeds far too often and the memory of holding them all–telling them to stop–is still too visceral; acid and metal still burn on his tongue, like dunking his hands into acid and he can’t pull away even as he screams.

“Shame there isn’t music down here.” Ortega cuts through his thoughts and Pollux turns and his eyes are on him–too brown.

“Sometimes the quiet is nice, Ricardo.” Pollux pulls away from the railing, stuffing his hands into his armpits to combat the chill. There isn’t the flush of the party, the flush of too many people in a room. But even down here with the two of them feels like a crowd.

“Can’t dance without music.” Ortega half turns to face him, a grin on his face, shining in his eyes.

Pollux snorts.

“Subtle, huh?” He clicks his tongue and Ortega nonchalantly shrugs, but a grin twitches on his lips.

“Well I’m not the best singer out there, but I can try.” Ortega takes a deep breath and it’s easy enough for Pollux to take his hands, shushing him.

“Shh, I’ll dance with you if you promise not to sing.”

He doesn’t have a bad voice, most certainly not, not one Pollux has only heard on occasion and finds absolutely wretched in the best way. No, it’s that he doesn’t want the feeling it gives him, the twist and turn in his gut, that little wellspring of joy that so easily overflows into smiles and laughter and getting in over his head.

Like he’s getting in now as Ortega pulls him in close, hand gingerly in his own and the other slipping around to the hollow of his lower back. Steps Ortega taught him a while back, when he put his feet on his own to get the swing of it, get the feel of dancing even if was only ever in a slow circle, rocking in place jazz. Like how it is now and Pollux is taller in these heels, tall enough to hear Ortega quietly humming.

“You said you wouldn’t sing.” Pollux teases softly and Ortega hums.

“Humming doesn’t count, Lux.” He whispers and there’s the same feeling of the wellspring rushing over and he’s in over his head. Way over his head and his feet and he’s head over heels. Head over heels and he won’t say the words, not even to himself.

They are just friends. Friends dancing in the shimmering distant light of Los Diablos, the New Year arriving on their doorstep: 2013.


	2. saccharine

Neon light looks good on Pollux.

It’s easy for Ricardo to catch himself looking at Pollux and think that, watching the blues, pinks and greens dance through his curls and down his face, painting his freckles in a chaotic sheen of alternating colors. Maybe it’s because it makes him look like less tired, the light giving warmth where there isn’t any. Or maybe it’s because they used to do this: visit arcades, stay out too late trying to get the highest score. Eat candy full of fake sugar–saccharine shit as Pollux called it–when they could afford to eat buckets of sugar.

Now Ricardo had to practically bribe Pollux to get him down to the pier for even an hour of fun. No holds bared fun with skeeball machines and pinball too.

Pollux looks up as he quickly twists his curls into a bun, raising a brow.

“What are you looking at?” He asks and Ricardo grins, still leaning against the pinball machine they’ve claimed.

“The way your face curls up when you’re thinking about something really hard.” Ricardo replies and Pollux’s eyes roll.

“Shove off…”

Despite his tone there’s a half smile on lips as he shoves a quarter in the pinball machine, drumming his fingers against the peddles as the ball drops.

This is vintage Pollux, his tongue barely poking out of his lips, eyes razor focused on the ball running about the machine. He’s nearly silent as he watches–as he works–curses slipping out when the ball is nearly lost. He’s all focused, all laser eyes and if Ricardo had a picture from all those years ago to hold up now, there would hardly be a difference. He does somewhere.

But Pollux’s hair is longer now, bags around his eyes deeper, shoulders hunched and his eyes full of so many ghosts he won’t talk about, much less name. He tells Ricardo far too often for comfort how he isn’t the same, how he isn’t the person he once knew.

“Fuck, damn it!” 

Pollux whacks the side of the machine, shaking his head as he cocks back the spring and lets the new ball fly.

“Losing your touch there, Lux?” He teases and Pollux snorts, licking his lips with his competitive smirk.

“Hardly.” He counters, saving the ball once more from a fall into the abyss of Game Over.

“I dunno. Two strikes already?” Ricardo clicks his tongue. “Not your finest day.”

Pollux frowns and it’s getting under his skin, the competitive edge.

“If you wanna be high and mighty about it, why don’t you try this?” Pollux bumps the machine just right to keep the ball on track, not enough for an error, but just enough.

“Pinball isn’t really my thing.” Ricardo crosses his arm and Pollux snickers.

“Ass.” He grins and Ricardo laughs.

Vintage Pollux indeed, the smirk completeing the look. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s better than a frown—better than chapped pale lips and things he won’t talk about. One day he’ll explain he’s said too many times, one day and Ricardo can’t help wondering if one day will be one day too late. Too late for what, he wonders and he doesn’t want to hold onto that thought right now.

He wants to hold onto the Pollux he has right now, watch his face painted in the bright lights, committing inches and details to memory. Looking at him like every moment might be the last because nothing is safe, there are no guarantees in life—no promises of tomorrow.

Pollux loses the last ball with a curse, but he’s still smiling, orange lights flashing over and over again of his new high score. A new score high enough to make the next person curse at it.

“Not my finest day?” Pollux cocks a brow and he’s still smiling. 

Smiling enough for lines around his mouth to show, for his eyes to crinkle just so, painting his face a picture of joy. Ricardo wasn’t sure if they had room enough between them for that, for anything but bittersweet memories and reaching across a chasm of years and death to make something new, create something good between them. Ricardo has gotten too many second and third chances to pass them up.

But there’s joy here, joy now and Ortega can’t help but smile back at him, just so.

“I take it back then.” Ricardo chuckles. “Can I get a take back?”

Pollux pauses, his smile remaining for the long quiet moment. Another time and another place and the words wouldn’t mean as much as they do, wouldn’t be coated in a double meaning, something so much more. Not just a take back for the words, but for the missing moments, time they ran out, three words Ricardo never got to say. Simple things keep catching them off guard, moments before that didn’t matter that suddenly mean the world.

Like the neon light and how it looks so damn good across Pollux’s face.

“Yeah you can get a take back.”


	3. nightfall

Intimacy isn’t ever easy, Pollux thinks. One thing he has in common with people and it isn’t something good like kindness, or being charitable. No, it’s one of those messy, weird gross feelings. The ones that hard, the ones that he struggles with understanding. Maybe he overthinks it, or maybe that’s just normal, he isn’t sure.

What isn’t normal is that Ricardo is sitting on his couch, spoiling Eggs absolutely rotten and, god, he can hear him telling her all the sweet nothings from the kitchen. Pollux rolls his eyes and holds back a smile, grabbing out two more beers, shutting the fridge with his hip.

“You’re going to ruin her, you know.” Pollux walks through the archway, kicking a few cat toys aside.

“Nonsense.” Ricardo huffs and it feels like betrayal with Eggs sitting on his chest, purring with her eyes half open and she’s soaking in the attention. She likes Ricardo and that is nothing short of a crime in his apartment.

“I beg to differ.” Pollux tucks his legs under him and sits, fishing the bottle opener out of his pocket. He cracks both of them open, flicking one at Ricardo. It misses, but it’s enough to grab Eggs attention and he tosses the other one across the living room and she runs. Pollux grins like he isn’t even sorry.

“She was keeping my lap warm.” Ricardo almost looks hurt. His puppy eyed look hasn’t changed in seven years and Pollux is almost too smart for his tricks now. Almost.

“You’ll get over it.” Pollux offers the beer to him and he takes it huff, but the mirth in his eyes says otherwise. Pollux takes a swig and there’s a joke incoming in 3, 2, 1…

“You could keep my lap warm.”

“Seriously? You can’t do better than that?”

Pollux snorts and shakes his head and Ricardo takes it all in stride, a grin on his face.

“Well when you put me on the spot…”

“Oh, no, no you got yourself into that all on your own, Ricky boy.” Pollux waves his beer at him before taking a long swig.

“It’s a classic, Lux. Can’t go wrong with the classics.” Ricardo huffs again and Pollux rolls his eyes, smile hiding behind his beer.

“If you happen to find that particularly charming.” Pollux snickers and he easily spots Ricardo leaning in close. He tempers his gut to not lean away, to keep his ground. It’s only Ricardo, only his best friend, sitting on his couch, enjoying a beer and bantering like they used to. Bantering like everything hasn’t changed, like they aren’t lovers and enemies the same.

“But you do find it charming?” Ricardo asks and it almost sounds honest, almost sounds quiet and desperate and is he shedding a mask? The smooth one that always has a comeback ready, the one that is afraid that Pollux will up and leave one day and that will be the end? The part that is afraid that he won’t get to say all the words he needs to say?

Maybe, but Pollux will get the last word. He always does.

He reaches up and brushes his fingers across his cheek and his face is warm because it’s still hot even with the AC on high and nightfall has long since passes over Los Diablos. 

“I find….” Pollux starts quietly, his thumb tracing down to his mustache and the soft line of white and the scar underneath. He finds the one that matches it across his knuckle. 

“I find you mustache to be the worse offender of the two.”

“Ya valió verga!”

And Pollux is laughing because Ricardo’s face is perfect, because he’s looking completely and utterly betrayed. Because it’s ridiculously funny and maybe he’s a little tipsy but he’s feeling soft and that doesn’t happen. But he’s still laughing and shaking his head and he doesn’t protest as Ricardo easily wraps his arms around his waist and pulls him in close, fingers knitting in his sweater.

“You’re too rude to me.” Ricardo mumbles and Pollux clicks his tongue, running his thumb across his lower lip. He yanks his hand back just in time, giving him a soft kiss instead.

“I’m just the right amount of rude, smug asshole.” Its said with mirth and Ricardo grins all the same, in all his wonderful smug assholery and all of the beauty of it and if this is what intimacy is like, maybe Pollux isn’t so bad at it after all.


	4. breaking kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1\. breaking the kiss to say something, staying so close that you’re murmuring into each other’s mouths
> 
> pre-heartbreak chargestep. just fluff. fluffy fluff

It’s hot, it’s sweaty and it’s not the first time Pollux has been kissed like this. Is it the third or fourth time? He can’t remember and it’s disconcerting since kisses like these only happen when he’s gotten himself into some ridiculous amount of danger. But if he had a quarter for every time Ortega thought he was in some serious danger, then he’d have enough money to afford rent for the next six months and then some. Oh to be that rich…

Ortega seems to have the idea that Pollux is made of glass, that he’ll break easily into a thousand pieces from only a few attacks. He won’t, he’s too smart to end up in that position. Or at least he tells himself that since it’s more a truth than a lie; well maybe only a smidge more truth.

Ortega’s hands hook under his mask before he can get out a word and his lips aren’t far behind. He tastes like iron and adrenaline, his hands finding the curve of Pollux’s waist and he holds him close. It’s not the first time he’s been kissed like this and he both hates it and he loves it; he loves Ortega kissing him–even though he would never admit it–but he hates how his mask digs into his face with how he barely yanks it up, pinching at his nose.

“Wait, wait–” he pulls away with a sputtering gasp, still close enough that their noses are touching, lips barely apart. “Can you please wait-wait two seconds..?” He scrambles out of his hold and pulls his mask off of his face, shaking his hair out.

“Pinching mask?” Ortega asks with a sly grin and Pollux rolls his eyes, but a barely there smile crosses his face.

“You’re lucky you don’t have to suffer for it. How dare you cover up your handsome mug?” Pollux teases and Ortega snorts.

“So you think I’m handsome?” He asks and all he gets is a mask thrown at his face and a playful punch to the side with just enough weight for it to twinge. Serves him right as he winces.

“You don’t have to keep treating me like glass, you know.” Pollux tells him quietly, the joke gone from his voice, seriousness filling in the gaps. “I can take a few hits.”

The bruise on his ribs along with the ragged scrape across his hip from landing and skidding across the ground will be begging to differ tomorrow along with the way his head is throbbing. But for now he is fine and he will be fine.

“I would prefer it if you didn’t have to take any of them at all.” Ortega’s voice is also soft, his face serious and genuine. Pollux doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to how he looks at him like that. Like he deserves how he treats him; his skin is crawling under his suit and he doesn’t know if it’s sweat or what is imprinted onto his skin. He’s going to need a long shower in pitch black anyway.

“It isn’t worth ruining your mug over.” He smiles to gain some levity, a breather, and Ortega is mercifully distracted once again. Distracted enough that when Pollux takes the collar of his skin suit in hand and pulls him down for a kiss–one that still tastes a bit like blood, but more like happiness–he doesn’t notice that Pollux takes his mask back. It leaves Pollux warm all over and his lips linger for a moment longer than he should, but as long as he likes.

“Best get your good face on lover boy, the LDPD isn’t too far behind.”

Pollux winks before he pulls his mask back down and gives a sharp wave, turning to disappear into the wreckage of the fight. He’s long gone, a hop skip and a jump too far away to call after. Ortega sighs and shakes his head, his face flushing, rubbing the back of his neck.

He’ll get him one of these days…


	5. lazy morning kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 6\. lazy morning kisses before they’ve even opened their eyes, still mumbling half-incoherently, not wanting to wake up

The alarm is not at all kind. It’s a bastardly thing–buzzing loudly–and Pollux despises it with every fiber of his being; it’s rude, it’s ugly, it’s interrupting the decent amount of sleep he managed to get last night…It’s even worse because Ortega’s arm loosens from around him and reaches around, less than gently smacking the old thing.

It’s instantly quiet, but Pollux’s ears are ringing now and he knows it’s going to buzz and collect into a headache at the base of his skull. Wonderful. Ortega grumbles quietly and pulls him back in, arm slinging over his waist, the other adjusting to be his pillow once more. Pollux scoots back towards him once more, hand lacing with his.

“Whattimeisit?” He mumbles, squinting his eyes at the grey light filtering in. The grey of storm clouds, not smog–the color of his eyes as Ortega had described once upon a time. Not the cheesiest romantic thing he’d heard him say and it would be far from the last.

“Too early….” Ortega mumbles back, snuggling his face into his neck, his mustache tickling because of course it tickles. Pollux is still squinting, looking up at the clock, red letters angrily staring back like the smack had been some slight. It was only a matter of time before Ortega hit it just right and it would fizzle out, fried to a crisp; it had no reason to be angry–it had lived this long.

“It’s seven am….” Pollux grumbles, knowing his schedule. He has things to do, places to be, people to see. Contrary to Ortega’s belief, he does have a life that includes others. Well, that is a bit of a lie, but there are still things he has to do. It’s a busy life as a villain. 

His days can’t all be wasted in bed, not even as thunder rumbles outside and fat raindrops splatter against the windows. Lovely.

He sighs and sinks back into the mattress briefly, relaxing for just a moment, letting the idea of staying simmer in the back of his head before discarding it. He takes a deep breath in and out–chasing away the headache–before he pushes Ortega’s arm away and makes to scoot away.

“Noooo…” Ortega whines, grabbing his wrist, not pulling, but holding taut. Pollux rolls his eyes because of course he’s going to be like this and he scoots around, looking over his shoulder. Pollux’s hair falls down his shoulder in thick curls and he pushes them away. Ortega’s brown eyes are half open and his pout is big enough for a bird to land on it.

“Nooo yourself.” He teases and his pout gets increasingly worse and Pollux snorts, shaking his head.

“Do you have to go this soon?” He pleads and he sighs, searching his face. Pollux remembers the last time he made him come back to bed and it was noon by the time he extracted himself from the sheets. He spent the afternoon doing tasks he needed the whole day to do. Pollux had a headache until the day after and he didn’t talk to Ortega for three days as punishment. It had been a punishment for Pollux too considering how he still texted him like he always did, each buzz a helpful reminder of how stupidly much he cares.

It’s even stupider how much Pollux cares for him in return.

Was a headache worth the cost of ending up in bed until noon? He isn’t sure, but his commitment to pouting is making a good case for it.

“You don’t want me to leave that badly?” Pollux asks, leaning over him and he’s pulling him back in again. He reaches out and strokes his bare shoulder, ghosting over his skin. Scarred skin, tattooed skin–he doesn’t care, his eyes on his face, intently so.

“Pollux,” he mumbles but his voice is just right, that sweet spot combined with the tip toe of his fingers curving down his waist.

“It is seven am.”

Pollux’s laugh is unexpected, a snort that turns to a grin, the laugh that follows tumbling from his lips. He shakes his head and Ortega is smiling back at him with that stupidly smug grin.

“You’re awful, Ricky boy…” He mumble, tenderly reaching out to brush his fingers down his cheek, finding the curve of his jaw. He kisses him before he can reply, soft and warm and filling up Pollux’s heart that is still too big for his chest. Ortega has no right to make it that way, but he does it anyway and Pollux far from admitting that to him. He doesn’t need a bigger ego than he already has.

“You’re the one in my bed, remember?”

“Don’t push your luck.”


	6. nap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pre-heartbreak fluffy chargestep

Pollux grumbles and curses under his breath, yanking off his gloves and discarding them onto the break room table with a SLAP. His jacket isn’t far behind, falling across the back of the chair; it’s easy to spare it with his other shirt and skinsuit. Not that any of it has stopped him from being covered in bruises and scratches, but he’d trade those over any serious injuries. His mask is next and he quickly rubs his face with his hands, sweat sticking to his brow along with a few curls. He sweeps them back and there’s a snicker of laughter from the old couch.

“You losing it over there, old man?” Pollux glances with a wry grin and Ortega pulls the ice pack away from his cheek, grinning.

“Your hair is a disaster.” He points and Pollux rolls his eyes.

“Try having curly hair and then you can talk.” He jabs as he sits down beside him, just close enough to be touched if Ortega reaches out. He’s gotten better at letting him close, letting himself be touched. It’s hard learning that touch can be a good thing, that it isn’t just for yanking, shoving, grabbing to stick needles–

“It takes work to look this manicured in a fight, you know.” Ortega cuts his thoughts away with a smug smile like he’s done dozens of times before and Pollux snickers, shoving the thought far back into his mind once more.

“Those good looks of yours were almost ruined by a good punch to the face.”

Ortega pulls the ice pack away and Pollux takes his face in his hands, examining the bruise already rising across his cheekbone and towards his nose. “You’re lucky you wear bruises well; have a press conference looking like this and you’ll be breaking hearts for sure.”

“Well with how good this fight went, they should be begging for a conference. Sad their favorite won’t be there.” Ortega is hardly subtle and Pollux gives him a not so subtle look.

“I guess they’ll just have to be content with their little action figures, posters and all of that other awful merchandise.” He rolls his eyes and pulls his hands away, but Ortega beats him to the chase and traps his hands under his own.

“Hey…” His voice takes on that soft warm quality, that genuine way when the jokes fall away and they only have each other. Well, Ortega has himself, and Pollux doesn’t have anything.

“Hey yourself.” Pollux replies and Ortega snickers.

“You did good today. I’m proud of you, Pollux.” He leans in and kisses his forehead; Pollux’s face flushes in that way he can never control when Ricardo says his name like that. Ortega is too smooth for his own good, too genuine all the time. Pollux isn’t used to praise for the sake of praise; it’s always been a tool, something to use to control him, make him try harder and harder, give more and more for the simple gratifying act of being acknowledged. Maybe in the dark hope of being recognized as something more than as a tool, to be given a chance at more. He didn’t get that until he was free, here with Rangers, here with Ortega, feeling his lips on his face, hearing his name. It’s nice to surround himself with the lie that they care about him because he’s a person.

Pollux struggles for words, but he doesn’t need them as Ortega pulls him close, flopping down on the couch that squeaks loudly in protest.

“Excuse me?!” Pollux pulls himself up a little to look Ortega in the face.

“What? I’m old and it’s time for a nap.”

“You use that excuse far too much.”

“Would you not like to take a nap?” He gets to the root of the problem easily and Pollux clicks his tongue and shakes his head.

“I smell like death.”

“Well we can smell like death together…while taking a nap.” Ortega breathes in and out steadily even with the weight of Pollux on his chest and he rolls his eyes. There really was no wining with him; if he said no, it would be as if he kicked a puppy with the face Ortega would make. If he said yes, it would be undoubtably smug.

“Fine…” Pollux concedes and he lays back down, curling himself up, Ortega eagerly wrapping his arms around him, one across his waist, the other gently across his thigh. 

It hardly takes long before Ortega is gently snoring with each breath out and Pollux shakes his head, gently reaching out to brush a hair from his face, hand drifting down to the bruise that will look terrible the next morning. But it will heal, and besides it’ll hardly get him down. A trait Pollux admires, wishes he had more of, wishes he could manage the enthusiasm for. But…for now it’s enough to have someone like that in his life. Someone who matters to him, someone who looks at him as a who, not as a what. Even if he doesn’t know he’s lying, it’s…it’s enough for Pollux to think of crossing that bridge one day.

Pollux’s hand drifts down to his jaw, settling back against his chest. A smiles for real, only just so, only for the quiet spaces between them.

“Sleep well, Ricardo.”


	7. righteous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pre-heartbreak | fluff!

Slip of the foot to the left, anticipate the swing, breathing in and out–sharp and quick–slide out of reach, counter.

Contact!

Snap of quick parried blows, hit for hit, blow to blow, touch to touch. Dance back, snap back from the touch. Excuses that it’s for the fight, the thrill of the motions, the twists and turns and laughter and–is that was this is? Dancing?

Ortega is laughing, that glint in her eyes.

Slide under a hook from a feint, a sharp tap to the back of her thigh; not enough to stop, but enough to pause. Dance out of reach once more, breathing in and out. In and out, steady against the jackhammer of his heart in his chest. A trade, a give and take, breathing in time, breathing in sync.

Don’t get cocky, keep out of Ortega’s grasp, use her height as an advantage. She’s getting better at that, knowing Pollux’s ticks and tricks, the flow of how someone smaller moves. Taken her a while to adjust, but it’s not about adjusting. It’s about keeping the edge, a leg up, one more trick up the sleeve, another card in the trick deck.

A difference between them–contrast. Ortega is good at rolling with the punches–literally–making it up along the way, plans tossed to the breeze. Breath to breath, skating by on the skin of bloodied knuckles and god she makes it look so fucking easy.

It’s…intoxicating. Breath to breath and it’s like static on his skin, thinking how she moves from moment to moment. No, not thinking; there’s no time for thinking, only reactions. Movements his muscles know, tensing, fingers wiggling in gloves. Licking lips and there’s that stupid smile on Ortega’s stupid face. But he’s sharing it, eyes wide, watching, anticipation a breath away. A cocky smile and yes.

Yes this is dancing.

Pollux catches the hook and he’s ready as the weight shifts, foot sliding back and he’s got his balance when Ortega doesn’t. He’s got her moves down to a science, knowing how she’ll shift and it takes longer to think than it does to react, for gravity to work and–

Sharp vertigo and he’s sprawled out across his back, ass over applecart across the mat, staring up at the florescent ceiling lights.

“FUCK!”

Ortega is laughing and Pollux rolls onto his stomach, still breathing hard, glaring daggers at her.

“What?” Ortega’s cross legged and she’s grinning like a fool, hands on her knees. She’s won again. For the fifth time. She tosses her braid back over her shoulder.

“Oh fuck off.” Pollux rolls his eyes but it’s easy to smile and shake his head. Adrenaline fading and it’s easy to see it now: Ortega grabbed his shirt and it was all the work of momentum and strength, yanking him up and over her. It’s easy to forget how strong Ortega really is…or how she can be so goddamn tricky. Easy to be like that when there isn’t a plan.

“I’m not the one who plays touch and go.” Ortega taunts back and Pollux drags himself to his feet, shrugging the pain of hitting the mat from his shoulder.

“You always find a way to catch me though.” Pollux grabs two towels, throwing one at her. Contact right in the face and he’s snickering, wiping the sweat from his brow and the back of his neck. “And you feel so righteous about it.”

He grabs a water bottle and chucks it at her and she’s deftly catches it, slinging her towel over her shoulder.

“Next time Lux.” She grins and there’s approval in her face. The genuine kind and Pollux isn’t used to that–the warmth of it filling out her features, in Ortega’s deep brown eyes. He scoffs to take the edge off the flare of heat in his chest, taking a long drink from his own water.

“You’ll be saying that when you sprawl me out across the mat again, so don’t give me that Jules.”

She laughs once more and Pollux shakes his head, but he’s sharing the smile, sharing in the joy for once.


	8. tender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's the holiday season y'all

It never gets all that cold in Los Diablos, only requiring a light jacket on most days after Halloween has come and gone. But that certainly has stopped parts of the city from lighting up like they’re in the North Pole even before Thanksgiving has crawled by. The lights are pretty, the fake snow and kitschy displays strangely fascinating, and there is a charm to the various knick knacks to celebrate the season, everything from mice in holiday hats to little Santa Claus complete with all the reindeer. Pollux is still nothing if not a connoisseur of stupid little trinkets and the holiday ones are not an exception. It’s endearing in its way how he gravitates to the tiniest little trinkets; Ricardo had asked him once and he’d only gotten a shrug and the quiet admission that he just liked them.

Ricardo glances out the busy coffee shop window, easily finding Pollux leaning against the window. His brow furrows and his lips quirk at his phone, but he tucks it back in his pocket. He looks out across the busy street, taking the cigarette from his lip, smoke disappearing past him with the wind. He stares at him until his name is called and Ricardo grabs their coffee with a smile and a few bills in the tip jar.

He slips out of the doors, two cups carefully balanced and Pollux straightens, taking his.

“Thanks.” Pollux barely smiles, but it’s a smile nonetheless.

“You’re welcome.” Ricardo smiles back.

The wind hasn’t let up and it’s enough to put a chill in the air, enough to excuse him as he wraps his shoulder around Pollux as they pick up walking again. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t give him a glare for once, letting Ricardo touch him cradling his coffee with both hands. Peppermint, because it’s always peppermint around his time in the year. That much hasn’t changed, that list getting longer and longer.

“Where to now, Lover boy?” Pollux asks and Ricardo doesn’t stifle a grin.

“I was going to surprise you, but when we get close you’ll know it. It’s the Memorial Park Light Show.”

It wouldn’t be the holiday season if they didn’t go and see the light show. They had gone every single year without fail, disregarding party invitations, both personal and public, just to spend a few hours wandering through the park filled to the brim with lights upon lights upon lights. Pollux had been remiss to go and see it the first time, not understanding how walking through a park filled with lights could be that exciting, especially with how many people went to it.

That was before he got dragged along, before he got stuffed into every bit of the holiday season and what it did to people. There was something infectious about the excitement and the joy all around that Ricardo swore he saw less of a frown on Pollux’s face the whole season. Maybe even a dozen or so more smiles if he was lucky enough to look at the right time when Pollux thought no one else was looking.

“They’re still holding that event?” The smile on Pollux’s face could almost be called hopeful and Ricardo nods.

“The city likes their traditions and you’d have a fight to take this one away.”

“You’d defend it yourself if it came down to it. You like it far too much to lose it.” He gets a nudge to the ribs and he rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling.

“It’s true, Lux.” Ricardo doesn’t deny it, still smiling as they keep walking.

As they get closer Pollux crawls out from Ricardo’s shoulder, taking his coffee in both hands. Ricardo knows he’s nothing if not a magnet for people and he’s gotten better about the distance–the privacy Pollux needs–even if he doesn’t understand it. There’s always press at these events, eager to get an eyeful of whoever is about, including off duty Rangers and especially who they bring about, who they come to places like this alone with. He doesn’t want to see Pollux’s face plastered across tabloids, talking about him as if he’s just another one of Charge’s girls.

“Come on.” Ricardo points off the other direction of the press gathered about and he knows it isn’t just luck that they pass unnoticed, that their eyes slip right past them like they’re just two ordinary people in the crowd.

Ricardo grins and Pollux rolls his eyes, shoving his shoulder. He laughs, falling into an easy step beside Pollux. It’s quiet between them as they meander through the displays, sparing a comment or two for the really good ones or the humorous ones, recounting memories in all the same breath.

“Remember when a squirrel ate one of the wires and the whole park went out one year?”

“You remember the year when the feud between a few of the stands finally reached it’s peak and they had to force a truce because the fire risk from all the lights was too high?”

“They had a mediator and everything, I still remember. Do they still put up displays?”

“Yup, and they haven’t feuded either.”

“That’s good.”

Pollux is good at hiding the most of it, but Ricardo still catches him staring too long, hands holding his coffee too tight, standing too tight as he stares at the displays. Some of them haven’t changed in decades, still the same ones from back before. He’s seeing all the ghosts that haunt storm colored eyes, the memories that haunt the displays. Anathema’s laughter, bright smiles in easier times, the world not half as complicated as it is now. Old paths well traveled, now overgrown and lost.

A gentle hand on Pollux’s shoulder or his name like a soft breath pulls him back around, tugs him back to the center–to the present where he belongs.

It’s the fifth time Ricardo has pulled him back around, the coffee cold in his hands, eyes heavier and mouth turned to a scowl. 

“We don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.” Ricardo tells him quietly and Pollux’s sigh is short and quick, pausing in front of a display. The rainbow lights flicker across his face like neon ones, painting his wrinkling face with streaks of color.

Ricardo doesn’t forget how this is all still new for Pollux once more, no matter how much he plays it off like he’s been here, done that a thousand times. A dozen masks he trades in and out, but none of them are quite good enough to hide how he doesn’t know the steps to this dance, doesn’t know the negotiation of this new life. The ghosts have always been in his head, but now he doesn’t have to face them alone; new paths to forge.

They’re both in a brave new world of possibility and Pollux would call him craven for describing it like that. Call him cheesy and he wouldn’t say it, but he would almost certainly imply it being romantic. 

“I do want to stay.” 

He admits and he’s always saying more than he really says, miles between his soft spoken words. 

I want to stay here and watch the lights, I want to watch them with you, I want to remember the good times, not the bad. Keep the ghosts at bay, watch them run. 

I want to stay here with you, make something out of this–out of us.

Pollux glances up at him with half a tender smile overtaken as he sips on his cold coffee, eyes drifting to the display and his freckles are aglow, lighting up his face, reflecting off the scars and the tired lines and god Ricardo loves him so much.

Ricardo careful wraps his arm around Pollux’s shoulders again and he leans into him, stays where he stands even as he presses a soft kiss to the top of his head.

“Okay, we can stay.”


	9. forehead kisses + making breakfast

Feet dangling off of the stool, swaying back and forth, toes touching the cabinet and bouncing back off, a steady thump thump thump along to the TV idly droning in the living room. Head bobbing down for the fifth time and Pollux puts his chin in his hand, eyes still closed. A curl hangs down between his eyes and moving it’s too much work. Picking up and drinking the coffee set in front him is also too much work even if it does smell absolutely wonderful. The whole kitchen smells fantastic, Ricardo busy at the stove, putting far too much work into anything this early in the morning. He would certainly call it slaving over breakfast while Pollux would call it fun to watch.

“Pollux?”

“Hmmmmmm?” He lifts his head from his chin, squinting through blurry eyes at Ricardo. He half smiles when he hears the sigh and it only gets bigger when Ricardo leans over the counter to get closer

“Pollux…” He says quietly and Pollux snickers, still looking at him through half open eyes. This close and Pollux picks out the subtle shadow of how Ricardo hasn’t shaved yet today, the warm look in his brown eyes, sunshine from the windows lighting messy hair aglow.

“You said you were making me breakfast….” He mumbles and Ricardo rolls his eyes.

“I did, but that doesn’t mean falling asleep at the table.” He teases and Pollux blows a raspberry.

“I’m sitting at your kitchen bar, but I can relocate to your comfortable couch if that is more your style.” Pollux teases back and Ricardo snickers this time. “Spill my coffee on your nice couch.” He adds and he can’t tell if the wince is fake or real.

“Mierda, you are insufferable.” Ricardo clicks his tongue and Pollux snorts, hand falling from his chin to fuss with his coffee. The creamer is already there beside the cup along with the sugar too. He’s spoiling him at this rate, setting it all out for him

“It’s 9am Ricardo…” Pollux laments, stirring the sugar and cream, taking a long sip even if it does burn his tongue. It’s the good kind, the stuff Pollux doesn’t bother to buy because it isn’t about the flavor–it’s the caffeine. But he can take time to appreciate good coffee.

“A perfectly decent time to wake up and eat breakfast.”

“And then go back to bed.” Pollux gestures with his coffee. “Since when did you get so good at this adult stuff? The keep a normal schedule stuff, making breakfast at a reasonable time.” He takes another sip and Ricardo chuckles, grabbing a few plates.

He doesn’t say what they’re both thinking, why he grew up, why he changed so much. The reason why he asks and thanks him, says the things he needs to say even when Pollux won’t say it back. Its the reason behind so many of the gaps and chasms between them, parts of their lives they’re trying to knit back together—build bridges instead of burning them for once. It’s harder to lay bricks than to light a fuse.

“Since I’m getting old.” He grumbles.

“Got that part right.” Pollux snaps with a finger gun, ketchup and hot sauce put in front of him–because it wouldn’t be breakfast without them–along with a plate. He doesn’t know how he’ll go back to having to get up to get his own food and condiments again.

“Hey,” Ricardo wipes his hands off as he walks around the counter and Pollux pauses garnishing his food, spinning the stool around to face him. “I’m not too old for you to like my smug ass.”

A terrible snort follows that dissolves into laughter and Pollux is smiling. The whole crooked lips and tooth gap, cheeks almost round enough to convince him that he the bags under his eyes aren’t the worst Ricardo has ever seen them, or that he hasn’t seen him smile in far too long.

“Oh woe is me.” Pollux shakes his head and takes Ricardo’s hands in his, his fingers always cold. Cold versus warm, blue to orange, the sun to the moon, dichotomies clearly painted between them. A chasm miles and miles apart, but it’s mending with each smile, every second Pollux stays and doesn’t run away, quiet admissions of the truth. How he takes his hand instead, fingers knitting together, forehead to forehead, lips sharing the same air.

“Thank you.”

He’s getting better at saying that and Ricardo smiles, kissing his forehead, lips trailing to his cheeks and finally his lips. Almost sweet enough to hurt his teeth and oh Pollux has got it bad.

Had it bad since too many days ago, too many months too count, a lifetime ago when they played heroes complete with masks of grey and electric blue. When the script was different, when it was too hard to say soft words, too hard to admit it all until it was almost lost in broken bodies and broken glass

Now Ricardo can’t say it enough and Pollux didn’t know how much he ached to hear all the sweet little nothings. Everything implied now exposed—vulnerable in their hands. Pollux’s hands weren’t made to hold soft things, precious things. But here he is, stealing glances at Ricardo as they eat in the quiet, TV still droning on the background. He could almost call it comfortable, almost say it feels like it was before, but it isn’t. It tastes different, sits different in his skin and its good. It feels good.

“Hey Lover boy?” His voice is softer than he means and he doesn’t curse it, looking over at him with a smile on his face.

“Hmm?” Ricardo glances back at him, brow cocked and still chewing.

“You make good breakfast.”


	10. don't leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw. suicide ideation + emetophobia

Two am. The light over the kitchen sink is still on, its blue fluorescence bleeding into the orange street lamps outside. Curtains left half open, just like the tv painting bright lights and deep shadows, volume turned to a whisper. Slow hands in his hair, gentle patterns against shaved scalp and scars there. Deep breath in and he rises, falling back as Ortega exhales. He’s warm–soft and gentle–against clammy skin. Pollux’s hands still shaking, bile fresh under his tongue, behind his teeth.

The toilet his silent companion, comrades in arms with his mountain of pillows and half a dozen blankets. Quiet comforts when the trauma grates against him, rubbing skin raw and red under hot water. Red against neon orange, barcode still there in neat little lines spelling out the mechanics of his flesh—how a cuckoo is bred to sing.

Another breath and he rises, one back out and he sinks like a buoy in the ocean. Fingers in curly hair, fingers soft on his waist. First time all over again laying like this, curled up tight together as a shield outside this room–outside his apartment. Turns his leg and Ricardo’s hand is on his thigh, warm. Shivers against cold skin, burry his face away from the light. Cologne, warm and musty in his nose and goddamnit is this what home smells like?

Is home showing up unannounced at one am, his whole body aching and screaming because he would rather run wild through the streets of Los Diablos to get to Ricardo’s apartment? Is home letting him inside, holding his hair back as he kneeled over the toilet, caught between his convulsing stomach and the half screamed cries spilling unbidden from his lips, tears and bile in equal measure? 

Edges of control worn thin, a cracking veneer and tears burn in his eyes, deep in his chest. Fingers digging in Ricardo’s shirt and goddamnit they went over this ten minutes ago in the bathroom.

Tears stain Ricardo’s expensive shirt—snot and spit too—fingers knitting in tight. A whine in the back of his throat, a pained sound in his gut.

“Shh, Pollux…” Ricardo whispers and he’s too damn nice. Too damn nice to him, too damn nice to someone who isn’t real, too damn nice to the person who beat him bloodied and broken, cackled in his face when he saw how he was afraid. He’s too nice to be holding him like this, like he’s his everything and–

Whimpers before the sobs, voice cracking and he’s always breaking into more and more pieces, fewer of them to put back together each time. More glue, more excuses that it’s better this way. He’s better at being dead than alive. Should be dead rather than alive. Needs to be dead rather than alive.

“Lux…”

“Don’t….don’t leave.”

Kisses soft, mustache scratchy against his cheeks rubbed raw, but kisses are what matter; soft lips with silent promises.

“I’m not leaving, Lux.”

Ricardo doesn’t know, doesn’t understand and maybe one day he’ll learn–one day he’ll tell him. One day when this is all over, when he gets to look up at the stars one last time and tell the universe goodbye.


	11. illusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tfw it's 2am and your sitting in a bathtub

Agony is what it is, the burn of hot water against Pollux’s skin, the steam thick and the humidity sticks to his skin in a thin layer and he licks the sweat off of his cupid’s bow.

Sinking lower in the tub, hair settling on water stained pink by blood, forceps still hanging from his numb fingers, stuck and unmoving. The needle is still bloody, discarded next to the soap and loose bits of thread. Breathing in through his nose, the fluorescent light above his sink buzzes in the silence, casting her blueish green haze through the steam, sharp next to the pink of skin flushed from water too hot. Opening his eyes and he stares at the long line of puckered skin pulled taught by the sutures, tattoos distorted by the shape of it.

In a few days he’ll have a scar and they’ll be back again, the bright orange still sticking. Eyes tracing deeper down and there’s the scar that twists and puckers the skin around his knee, tattoos permanently distorted. A fight with the stench of plasma, an explosion rattling his senses, car crushing his leg. He’s never screamed like that before, pain and panic overriding the sense that none of that will make it better. Still he screamed until Ortega lifted the car enough to scramble to his feet, leg bleeding free.

Bites his lip and it doesn’t taste like blood, not like it did those years ago. Bloodied lips on his own and he got used to kisses tasting like that, the pinch of a mask pulled up up to his nose.

Memories are fickle and flesh remembers, he knows that. Words whispered against his lips and he still remembers the shape of them against his own, but not the words. His heart gives him the words he thinks should be there and it’s all sickeningly sweet little nothings

Is it real? Was it real? Could the words have been really there, or is it just a concept he sticks in the cracks of his broken head like sutures in skin, glue between scars? He think it makes him stronger and it’s a fun little illusion, but anticipation crawls across his skin, waiting for the fall.

He hates Ortega. Hates him and it burns in his gut, rolling over and over and he hates him. Hates how he can’t have the truth and keep his lies, can’t tell what’s going on in his stupid head, hates how he acts like they can go back to it all before, hates how he looks at him and sees what he wants to see–how he sees Sidestep, sees Pollux, when he isn’t there anymore.

There wasn’t even a person to start with rattling around in his head and he hates Ortega putting one in there.

Pollux adjusts his leg and he winces as the fresh wound dips below surface of the hot water, tattoos distorting in the shifting water. He sinks in deeper until his head is covered, eyes squinted tight and its warm all over. Like staring out of the fish bowl of his childhood, warm clinging to bare skin, glass distorting white coats. But he remembers their eyes. He has no names for the scientists who bred him from a bottle, but he remembers their eyes, remembers their faces.

Eyes looking him up and down, hands on him, shoving him down down down, trying to scream but something shoves in his mouth and there’s water rushing in, rushing in his ears–

He yanks himself up, sputtering and coughing, slicking hair out of his mouth, eyes screwed shut.

“FUCK!”

Voice clogged on the steam, running his hands down his face, shaking all over. Control, control, breathe in and back out, over and over again. Pulling his arms tight around himself and his skin sticks to itself, reminder that he’s here. Reality, where he belongs, where he’s in control. Water lapping around his body, heat fresh with each wave and it burns but it’s what he deserves.

No one to be mad at but himself.

Fresh gauze around the sutures, hair dripping on the tile beneath his feet still shaking and he grinds his teeth, pulling harder on the gauze. Pain stops the shaking and he’s back in control. Yanking a shirt on over still wet skin and it’s uncomfortable, but another reminder. The water is almost gone–the gurgle of the drain his company when he coaxes pants on over fragile skin still pink and hot to the touch.

Another breath in and one back out, standing once more, putting a cigarette between his teeth. Strike of a match, deep breath in. Control, control, control.

Another breath in and one back out.


	12. soak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some argentstep for a change. still with pollux bc we rocking that poly life

“Sorry you’re going to have to scrub all the villainy junk out of your bathtub.”

Pollux wanders, lazy step after lazy step, into the plush bedroom, plush towel wrapped around his neck, plush carpet in between his toes. Angie rolls her eyes because of course she does, discarding her phone to the depths of pillows and comforters filling her bed.

“I’ll make you do it since you were the one who took the bath.” She shoots back, stretching high above her head, nose scrunching and she droops back down, the strap on her tank top slipping down her arm.

“When I’m a guest here in your home?” His pitiful look is only half baked and there’s the smallest hint of a smile turning the corner of her mouth. Could be excused as just a twitch, but he knows better.

“I’m not getting villain junk all over me from a bathtub.”

“Rather get villain junk all over you from the source?”

Pollux taunts and he wanders over to the plush expanse of her bed, colored in all manner of pastels, painting subtle hues of blues and pinks off her metallic skin, the warmth of bedside lamps making her glow.

“Gross…” She huffs and he snorts, climbing up into the bed beside her.

She’s glowing here, more than anywhere else. She always glowing, light striking and refracting, painting her in a litany of hues both soft and intense. Most places she’s covered, tucking her glow under Ranger blue or a wide brim hat, baby pink scarf tucked close to her skin. But here the strap of her tank top still hangs loose on her arm and he slides it back up to her shoulder, his touch lingering against her skin. Cool to the touch, cool against his lips as he paints kisses up her arm, lips a whisper like words he won’t say.

Once she would’ve glared daggers, thoughts a razor against any intrusion. Cracks in the foundation, but she’s a woman forged of steel and steel doesn’t flinch. Bulwark in the storm, shedding bullets like rain, but Pollux knows the pain under her skin. He wore it once, felt each breathless second in pain unseen beneath polished metal, knows it lingers in the corners of her mind like an unwelcome intruder that just won’t leave.

She doesn’t speak, just the sound of breathing in and out, between them kisses stalling at the top of her shoulder. He rests his forehead against her, eyes closing. If his wet hair sticking to her skin bothers her, she doesn’t say. He smells like roses and honeysuckle and it’s going to linger for days to come–soaked into his skin–but it smells like her and there’s that pesky warmth in his gut.

“Tired?” Angie’s voice is quiet here and he sighs.

“Always…” He mumbles a reply, resting his chin against her shoulder, staring at one of the pillows adorned with satin.

Her hands find his, coaxing his arms around her and they find the hollow of her waist, the curve of her in his hand. 

“You don’t smell bad…” She murmurs and he chuckles, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. He meets her silver gaze there and he could almost call it soft for a woman made of steel–Lady Argent.

“Could go smoke a cigarette with your sharks.” He jests and she pinches his arm hard enough that he whines and he pinches her waist right on back. She huffs, a warning flashing in her eyes and Pollux smirks.

“Pollux.” She warns again and he fusses with her shirt.

“Ximena.” He taunts her back, cocking a brow and there’s a smirk that isn’t quite a smirk poking at the edges of her lips.

“There’s the couch if you want to sleep there instead.”

“Slept on a lot of couches.”

“There’s also the dumpster in the back alleyway.”

Mirth fills his voice and warmth fill his face and he’s hardly the picture of a villain right now, laughing in the apartment of one of his enemies, easily scooped up in her arms and she holds him close to her chest. He keeps his arms around her waist, lifting his head to look her in the eyes, chuckling still and she rolls her eyes, snuggling him in tighter.

“You’re insufferable.” She drones like he’s the most boring thing she’s ever seen and once he was the most boring thing she had ever seen. Just some old not dead former hero Ortega was still hopelessly in love with who could solve their problems. A wretched, grumpy little smoker who smells terrible, one who watched awful horror movies with and a few of those shitty old hero classics. An old not dead former hero she kissed hidden below the casino and her fingers brush over the narrow scar marring his lip.

“But I am in your bed.” He points out with the smallest smile turning his lips and she sighs deep and long, tucking a curl back behind his ear, silvers fingers slipping through his curls, finding the hollow between his shoulder blades. Anchoring him close, pulling him in tight.

“You are in my bed.”

It’s a fine line between a trap and opportunity and being here, being in her bed and in her apartment is walking that tight rope and there’s nothing air beneath him. But she has him in tight and he’s basking in her glow and even if it’s a trap, he prefers it to the free fall.


	13. too loud

Phone buzzing, bed creaking and blankets tangling in his legs, hand appearing from the heavy layers cocooning him. Groping blindly through the dark and he fishes the device out from under his pillow, dragging his face from the depths of his pillows. Cursing at the bright light of his phone and it rudely tells him it’s 5 in the afternoon.

Are you still in bed?

Ortega’s text flashes across his screen and Pollux rubs his forehead, chewing his lip.

You asked me three hours ago and it hasn’t changed.

Pollux should have just left it, not bothered to reply and left the phone to buzz on repeat, forgotten in his sheets and the haze of hours slipping by like sludge, watching the sun cross the outside of his curtains and the orange street lights follow behind, bringing the sounds of the city shuffling her hand once more.

Three hours ago he’d promised Ortega he would clamber out of bed and go do something, but he’s still buried in his nest. The day before he said he would get up, and the day before that too.

Pollux you need to get out of bed.

What if I don’t want to?

He replies quicker than he should, the florescence of his phone joining his beside lamp still aglow. His hand buzzes again and he groans, closing his eyes. Call it cruel but he just wants to shove his face into his unwashed sheets and blankets for a little while longer, wrap himself up in layers and layers until there’s just weight all around him, pulling him in tight. Used to hate it, back when the crushing weight was a prelude for worse things to come.

Pollux you’ve been in bed for three days.

Pebbles? Come on.

Now the weight is a penance, a strange comfort even in the pain of it, something he deserves–something he controls. Facing the reality, facing what’s hidden behind his eyes in a round about way. Trick his head into fixing itself and that isn’t how it works, but it’s worth a try; can’t fix what’s broken inside, can’t put the coding back in the rogue little machine. Morbid how easy it is to compare himself to a coffee maker.

Hey did you fall asleep?

Pollux please.

Wait, a coffee maker is more useful than he is; it’s not going to get up one day and convince itself that it’s real and stab you with a knife for good measure. No it sits pretty on the counter top and does it’s happy little job day after day, being used over and over again. Never protesting, not until it’s too late and it’s there broken and you’re cursing at it for failing you now. But it doesn’t get hair-brained ideas, like ones where stabbing was the least of the things he did, blood not his own on his teeth, alarms screeching, people running and fear is an acquired taste but he’s gotten it on his tongue and it’s addictive–

A shrill sharp ring and it’s a snap of the fingers back to reality, curses flying from his lips. He scrambles through the blankets, yanking his phone out from under a discarded pillow, roughly answering the shrieking.

“What the actual fuck, Ortega?!”

He grinds his teeth, picking hairs out of his face and he sure fucking hopes he can hear the displeasure in his voice, heart still pounding.

“Hey, hey Pollux! Geez, I was only worried!”

“Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t hang up right now.”

“Hey I was only worried, that’s it Pebbles. Sorry if I woke you up, I know you don’t sleep good.”

There’s the regret bleeding in from his voice and he’s surely pacing around whatever room he’s in. His office if he’s working late, or the break room if he isn’t. Getting ready to leave, call him, ask him if he’s doing anything. He can’t read Ortega’s mind but old habits die hard.

“But you had to call me?”

“You weren’t answering my texts.”

“Like that’s anything new for you.”

“You’ve been in bed for the last three days. Forgive me for being a little worried about you.”

“I’m retired.”

“Retirees don’t lay in bed all day.”

“Last time I checked it was none of your business, Ricardo.”

“Fine,” He huffs into the microphone and Pollux bites the tip of his tongue, holding back a retort. “I just wanted to check in and see how you were doing.”

“Fine just fantasizing about unicorns and how they shit glitter.” It still slips out from behind his teeth.

“I thought it was rainbows and puppy dogs?”

“Well in your fantasy they can do that. In mine they shit glitter and tell Ricardo Ortega to mind his own fucking business.”

“Sheesh, fine I get the point Pollux.” Ortega sighs and he’s definitely doing that stupid run his fingers through his hair or that stupid tweak of the edge of his mustache.

“Glad we see eye to eye for once.” There’s a joke there but Ortega doesn’t take the bait, but he hears the smile in his voice anyway.

“So now that you’re awake, will you humor me?”

“I’m not going to Hoots.”

“Okay, what about I make you dinner?”

“I’m not showering or putting on nice clothes.”

“Okay that’s fine.”

“Ricardo I’ve been laying in bed for three days.” Pollux laments, twisting blankets around his fingers.

“Seen you when you hadn’t showered in five and we were in the middle of the desert, sweating our asses off. Can’t be worse than that.”

“You know you’re supposed to say something like ‘oh well maybe we can try again tomorrow or the next day!’ You know like normal people do.”

Ortega tsks and Pollux resists the urge to flop back into his now ruined nest of a bed.

“Going to have to decline that normal people card.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You still haven’t answered my question. What if I make you dinner? Nothing fancy.”

Pollux pinches his lip, enough that it hurts and he takes a deep breath. Last time it was more than dinner, last time it was far more than anything having to do with dinner and he still remembers every inch of that night in details enough to make his face still flush. Apprehension curls his stomach and it’s the unfamiliar kind–the one that flushes his face and leaves him paralyzed by bedroom doors, fingers on light switches. Bedrooms in darkness and fuck he never knew how much I love you really meant until that night. Always thought it was cheesy to compare it to a man finding an oasis when he’s dying of thirst, but it’s every inch the truth.

“We don’t have to do anything.” Ortega’s voice is soft even through the grain of the speaker, soft like any louder and he’ll chase Pollux away.

“Watch some TV, eat some food. Maybe ask you to dance? Hold your hand, hold you close, brush a hair out of your face, kiss your lips…”

Pollux scoffs, picking a hair out from his face..

“And that’s all?” He asks quietly like taking a deep breath against the roll in his gut.

“If that’s all you want, Pollux.”

Silence fills the space between their phones and Pollux lets it lay there, lets it rest, only the soft sound of breathing in time–breathing in the same motions like bobbing among waves or slow circles spinning to singing saxophone. All quiet, nothing too loud–inches and seconds all too precious for words.

“I’ll be there in a half and hour.”


	14. in dreams

Helmet lost in the dirt, glass visor shattered into fragments covering the ground, but he doesn’t need it. Doesn’t need it to keep up the fight, to throw punches and lunges, pushing Ortega further back. He meets blow for blow, parrying and blocking but he doesn’t retaliate, doesn’t give back the same fists Pollux is giving. He doesn’t want that–can’t have that. He wants the fight, wants the rush, adrenaline pounding in his veins.

~~Wants to be stopped, needs to be stopped. This is how it ends.~~

Adrenaline races in his blood and he never feels this alive any other time. The taste of blood, dust and ozone on his lips and its addictive—a rush to his head, the focus, the drive, the need. He lands a sharp kick that knocks Ortega back a dozen feet, feet skittering across the dirt until he hits a broken wall, head snapping back hard against the concrete.

It crumbles under the force and Ortega slumps down, shoulders rising and falling with each labored breath. Dust settles around him, clinging to the lines of blood drawn from cuts in his suit and across his face. Pollux quickly advances, red hair trailing behind like a bloodied cape, armored boots heavy on the packed earth. The glass from his helmet crunches underfoot.

“Pollux–” Ortega quickly raises a trembling hand, eye squinted shut from the blood dripping down his forehead.

“Fight me, Charge!!” Pollux screams, throwing his arm back to punch Ortega in the face. Cracking bones under his armored fist, but he doesn’t get another chance, Ortega catching his fist. He holds tight and holds fast, shaking from the effort but he still stands strong. Stubborn old bastard.

“I don’t want to fight you.”

Ortega grits his teeth and Pollux snarls, grey eyes meeting brown. He raises his second fist and Ortega sweeps past it, catching him by the wrist. He twists his wrist into submission and Pollux strains against his hold, barring bloodied teeth, growling deep in the back of his throat.

“Coward!! Fight me!!”

“I don’t want to fight you, Pollux!!”

Ortega is telling the truth, plainly written on his face—in eyes too brown—and it only makes Pollux angrier, the roll of it deep in his gut, the chill of anger running red hot. He doesn’t get to say his name like that, doesn’t get to look at him like that’s all it will take to make it all better again.

Like the truth matters now that they’ve come this far, that Pollux has burned every bridge and he’s basking in the smoke, watching the fire burn. He would laugh if he wasn’t choking on smoke and he’s not going down without dragging everyone else down too.

~~He needs to drag everyone down, make them hurt exactly how he hurts.~~

“You’re not leaving here, Charge. Not until I get what I want!!” Pollux’s lips curl in a sneer. His armor is straining under the force, but Ortega still holds fast, blood dripping down his chin. Deep down Pollux sees it: fear; there’s fear in Ortega’s eyes, just like at the Gala. Fear and the dawning realization that this is what Pollux is. This is what he has always been.

There’s just this, just Icarus left. That’s all there ever was, that’s all there ever will be. There never was a Sidestep, there never was a good person under it all. Pollux is dead.

It’s easy to watch the world when he’s dead, easy to break the grey down to black and white, good and evil, right and wrong, and pick a side. He knows which side he’s on, the one he was always meant to be on. He played the angel well, but every Icarus meets their end and he knew that the moment he stepped out into the flashing camera lights of the Gala, arms raised to the sky, laughter like he’s been born anew. Making it simple, make the world easier to look at it, make everyone see the world easier. Break it down to two sides of the same coin. A flick of the thumb and it tumbles in the air and he knew the outcome before it hit the ground. Just like how he hit the asphalt with a rain of broken glass. Sidestep died that day, but Pollux did too.

“Pollux, please.”

Ortega pleads and Pollux twists his hand hard, flipping the script and he grips Ortega’s wrist hard, bones scraping together. He doesn’t struggle and if it hurts, he doesn’t show it. The last shreds of bravado.

Pollux grips harder and the bones crack under the weight, but still he doesn’t wince, doesn’t flinch. He just stares into his eyes, gaze unflinching.

“Pollux, please, I don’t want to fight you.”

His voice isn’t all soft to his ears, doesn’t sound like all the times he’s whispered in his ear, told him sweet little nothings, whispered about how much he loves him. So many sweet nothings, but they’re all just words. It’s all just words, just air in his lungs and the stupid thoughts Pollux can’t read.

It’s all just nothing, isn’t it?

There’s nothing left, nothing real in him to love, nothing that Ortega ever knew.

Blind to the person he loved, a recreation in his mind’s eye, a fabrication to make a fucking re-gene look prettier than it ever could be. Blind to Icarus starring him down, blind to his plans, blind to how it can only end one way.

His lips curl into a vicious grin, Rat King chittering impatiently in the base of his skull, impatient at the flurry of activity in his hand, restless little creatures in their cage.

Waiting.

Wanting.

He leans in close, hands still locked in their twisted embrace, lips below Ortega’s ear

“Too bad.”

Acid and metal on his tongue and it only takes a breath in and back out.

There’s screaming and he yanks himself up in bed, gasping past the hammering of his heart trapped behind his ribs. Breath frantic in his chest, diaphragm jerking, heart pounding in his head.

He kicks his legs against his blankets and it only twists them more and the frustration bubbles behind gritted teeth. He yanks and yanks until he’s sobbing and cursing, ripping and tearing the sheets until he’s free and he tumbles off the side of the bed in a heap.

The sobs are next, breaking and tearing at his throat and he curls up tight, breaking at the seems on old worn carpet that smells like vomit and dead dreams. The sounds are always quieter when they break against pillows and blankets, but pressed into the cold floor they’re naked and fierce, wracking his shoulders with each gasping breath that ends with a choked sob.

That wasn’t him, that wasn’t him, that wasn’t him….was it? Could he? Stare Ortega down, bloodied, battered and pleading and still he—

Skin is safe, but mods are not. Technology making flesh run, body move, brain work. Tear flesh from mods and what would be left? Would there be anything left?

He still tastes acid on his tongue and its sharp in his nose—the nightmares are always far too real. For a moment the phone is far too appealing, a simple text just to see, just to make sure he’s alright, checking in, throwing himself a lifeline, a connection—

No, he’s fine. 

It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real.

A mantra as sobbing cries give way to hiccups and his face is soaked in spit and snot, hair hanging in a messy curtain over his face, draped in piles all over the floor. Deep breath in, back out. One more, two more, three more until his heart is quiet in his chest, his breath only a tremor instead of an earthquake. One ounce of control back and he clings to the smallest bits he can find.

It’s always been that way, holding onto the sanity he can find. Maybe he’s just finding it now, or it’s never been sanity he’s found.

Answers make questions, questions make answers.

He’s torn at the seems and breath by breath he stitches himself back up, pulling together the bits and pieces, coaxing himself back to what he should, not what’s illustrated in dreams. More glue and patching over the cracks, smoothing the surface, rebuilding broken shields.

Crawling to his feet now steady and he shuffles the nightmare away, squeezes his hands into tight fists to bring him back. Focus. Control. Not now, not yet. Not yet. Only in dreams.

It’s just a dream.


	15. cheap

Afternoon light painting across the room, flipping magazine pages and the muffled sound of a tv just above silent buzzes around in the background. Pollux stretches his leg and twists his ankle around, grimacing because it sounds like popcorn and he doesn’t want to think about how he’s getting old. No, he’s content to sit on Ortega’s couch and half read a cruddy tabloid magazine he swiped the other day with a new pack of cigarettes.

He peeks up over the top of the magazine and Ortega is still looking at the tv, almost looking like he could fall asleep sitting up if Pollux gave him another ten minutes. He scoots lower on the couch, back against the armrest and he stretches his legs out, bare feet resting against Ortega’s thigh. Pollux chews his lip instead of the butt of a half finished cigarette like he would want, but he promised Ortega he would only smoke outside and it’s a promise he can keep.

Ortega’s hand half minded rests on his calve and he glances up to see Ortega peeking, catching his eyes. Pollux looks away, flipping to the next brightly obnoxious page.

“Why did you let your hair grow out?”

Pollux only half hears him and he glances up, cocking a brow.

“What?”

“You let your hair grow out.” Ortega repeats and Pollux frowns, pulling a red curl out of his face, relocating it back to the rest of its compatriots.

“It’s...different.” Ortega adds like he’s trying not to offend and Pollux snorts at his fumbling attempt. There’s nothing quite like catching the smoothest man off guard.

“Charming today aren’t you?” He teases, looking back down at the magazine, licking his thumb to flick to the next page.

“I’m always charming.”

There’s the sauve coming back around, getting his legs back under him and it’s right back where they started.

“Smug asshole.” Pollux pokes him with his foot and there’s the barest hint of a smirk turning the edge of a mustache. He doesn’t need to read his mind to know what he’s thinking and Pollux gives him a look.

“I hope you remember the last time you tried touching my feet.” It ended in a spectacular fashion with an almost broken nose and a bruise on Ortega’s chin that lasted for weeks.

Ortega surrenders with the quirk in his lips disappearing, hand still against his leg.

“But seriously,” he speaks again, “why grow your hair out? You never used to let it get past peach fuzz.”

There’s that same look Ortega gets when he thinks about the past, the wistful little feelings Pollux still can’t catch as they drift past. He knows them, remembers Ortega running his fingers across his buzzed head, remarking about how it felt like a puppy butt one way and a porcupine the other. He’d batted his hand away back then, grumbling something he can’t remember now, silenced with a chaste kiss and a mumble about how it’s cute against his lips.

The kisses taste different now, more like cigarettes, lost dreams and the scratch of a mustache on his nose. He’s lost the feeling of the old kisses, those memories locked behind a door he never made a key for, locked deep down so he could make them believe he hated Ortega, make himself believe that he wasn’t ever coming back because it hurt less than hearing them say it. Self made suffering is his forte after all--he didn’t pick the name Icarus because it sounded pretty.

“I wanted a change, something a bit different.” Pollux breathes deep and back out, leaving the ghosts and their moaning screams to haunt other parts of his head.

“So you grew your hair out?” Ortega cocks a brow and Pollux rolls his eyes, leaving the magazine in his lap. 

“Does there have to be more of a reason why? I can’t grow my hair out?” Pollux frowns and Ortega chews the inside of his cheek.

“There’s always more to it, Pollux,”

“There isn’t.” Pollux insists, lips curling into a grimace. He knows him too well goddamnit. There’s always more and he’s looking at him like he’s waiting for him to explain, brown eyes far too inquisitive, far too intruding. He can’t say the words he’ll choke on when it’s a long chain of points to a secret he can’t even think about right now.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” He mumbles after a tense minute, pulling his shoulders in close, the couch--the whole room--suddenly far too small to hold them both.

Yes, just hide behind the big scary things, the what if’s and the dark secrets Ortega knows he keeps. The bits and pieces he’s seen, the cracks to what is shattered underneath. The deep dark ones that hide in his head, the ones Ortega doesn’t question, the ones he should be afraid of.

But there’s always a more, they lurk and he hides the words to give them life behind his teeth.

He taught himself ownership, picked up pieces and fit them to himself, constructing who he was going to be. Building on the little concrete things, the foundations still there deep inside, the parts that refuse to break because he’ll be damned if he didn’t build them to withstand an earthquake. Not all of the new pieces fit, some lost, others discarded.

Questions and questions to himself, extracting the old voice they taught him, like bleeding infection from a wound and fuck its stubborn, bleeding bathwater baby girl pink to rich crimson. But he got further, claimed things as his own—taught himself how to own himself. The scars he earned from back alley fights and his crooked bumpy nose, the taste of snot and blood thick on his tongue. The scars from the worst of the worst still cauterized in his brain matter, ones that just won’t fade. The ones there when his eyes finally slip shut and when he blinks too fast against bright daylight scattering like shards of glass.

Bits and pieces to build himself, but...the hair. The stupid piece he couldn’t fit and it’s disgustingly vain. No, the real disgusting part is the comfort of clippers across his head, hair falling in tiny red wisps to little piles about shoes tapping on tiled floors, rubbing alcohol stinging in his nose, the taste of it on the back of his tongue.

There’s comfort in the familiar, the steady lines of clippers drawn from forehead to spine, like stabbing himself over and over again. It’s painful but it’s familiar. It’s taking clippers to his head at two am every two weeks and sitting in the corner of his shower until the water turned from boiling hot to ice cold, skin bright red, welts across his back.

It doesn’t make sense, the mind is rarely a rational thing. Put a frog into boiling water and it will jump away, but heat the water slowly and it won’t ever know the difference until it’s too late. Funny how stupid metaphors are far too fitting.

There are other ways of hurting himself now, pain finding him in new and creative ways. There’s still the slow ache of drawing out the voices in the tub and there’s watching peach fuzz fall from the side of his head every two weeks, the rest of his red curls a heavy curtain. Mashing the old and the new, dividing it’s the same as adding or multiplying--you don’t get the same answers and he’s still searching for the numbers that fit just right.

“Okay, fine.”

A breath in and Pollux slams the door on those memories, blinking his eyes and they burn. Focus, come back, magazine in his hand, couch beneath his butt, circles drawn on his pant leg. Ortega said something, remember it, know it, come back to here.

“Okay fine?” Pollux looks up at him and Ortega takes a deep breath. Like the one back in the park—he wants to know but he’s finally figuring out everyone’s good old friends Privacy and Do Not Pry.

“Yeah, just okay fine.” Ortega repeats and gently pats his leg, fingers and hand lingering for a long moment. “But--”

Pollux bites his tongue hard because there’s always a but to this.

“If you want to talk, I’m here.” He tries for a smile and it looks far more concerned than reassured and Pollux holds back a frown, biting the inside of his cheek.

“I know.” 

He tries for a smile, a strange quirk of his lips, one that feels odd on his lips. It’s not like frowns that are a dime a dozen, cheap little things to throw out.

But he can spare one for Ortega, just a small one and it’s enough to soothe him, smooth the worried lines around his face that never really go away now. Ortega crosses the space between them and his lips barely brush against the scars crossing Pollux’s temple. There’s far more unsaid in the small gesture, enough to fill the whole apartment and they’re drowning, calling it everything it isn’t.

Ortega mumbles something that suspiciously sounds like I love you and Pollux just nods, words too clogged up in his chest for anything else. But it’s enough, it’s enough. It’s enough.


	16. foolish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 42\. foolish
> 
> retribution era. chargestep. bittersweet fluff

Rolling over in the creaking bed and Ortega tosses his arm out towards the other side like looking for his port in a storm, fingers sliding along the blankets looking for purchase. He brushes his fingers across the fabric, only the rustling sound and a cold rumpled blanket greeting him instead of warmth—instead of a person. The person he had fallen asleep holding last night. He runs his fingers across the blankets and there’s still nothing, just the cold of the overhead fan blowing onto his arm, the stale smell of citrus and musky cologne stirring in the sheets.

He sighs heavily, rubbing a hand down his neck, the ghost of Pollux’s breath still lingering, the brush of his nose and lips in wisps of kisses, a touch to let him know he was still there, still holding on tight. He wasn’t leaving, wouldn’t disappear in the middle of the night.

Opening his eyes just to make sure—make sure he isn’t hiding on the far side of the bed curled up as he is want to do—but it’s still just his grey sheets staring back at him. It’s early, enough that his bedroom is colored pastel shades of blue from the sky parted through narrow gaps in the curtains. It’s early—seven am early and he sighs again into the quiet, rubbing his hand across his forehead and down his cheek, scratching the stubble at his jawline.

He turns his head, contemplating going back to sleep, calling in one of his dozens of sick days just to mope and…

And he blinks. Someone is curled up on the armchair, feet pulled up and head resting on his knees, grey eyes watching him, blinking slowly. He’s so small in the chair, dwarfed by the discarded clothes across the back and arms. Had he always been so small, dwarfed by so much around him? Ortega thought he had the details of Pollux memorized, carefully catalogued in his memory alongside all the other people he’d lost to time, to foolish mistakes in their line of work. Memories he would’ve carried for forever, the littlest moments both the best and the worst things he remembered.

Pollux’s eyes meet his in the dim light, thoughts scattering like defused sunlight.

“Hey sleepy head…” Pollux mumbles and he untucks his legs from under himself and stands, meandering over to him. Something hurts by the lopsided way he wanders, but there’s always something that hurts now that they’re older—bodies past their prime, worn.

“Why aren’t you in bed?” Ortega’s words slur with sleep still, hands outstretched as Pollux sits down on the bed beside him. He doesn’t protest as Ortega’s hand rests against his leg, fingers tracing idle patterns across his thigh–tiny circles, little lightning bolts.

“Couldn’t sleep…” Pollux replies, slowly blinking in the light turning from pale blue to warm grey. There’s just enough light to see the redness around his eyes, hear the clogged sound of him taking a breath through his nose.

“Nightmare?” Ortega asks softly and Pollux gives a half hearted shrug, staring aimlessly at the other side of the room. Blinds painting narrow lines across the closet and dresser on the far wall, expensive watches in padded boxes, photographs in frames. There’s familiar photographs there, ones propped up again after laying dormant face down in the wood long enough for dust to gather, leave an echo where they once laid. Memories in stillness behind glass, faces and time preserved.

“Hey…” He squeezes his leg and Pollux spares a glance, brow knitted in a tight line. “You don’t have to tell me.”

Pollux snorts. “I wasn’t planing on telling you.” He snips and Ortega frowns, walls closing up around him again, pulling himself in tight; angry words, bitterness eating into his voice. He’s good at faking that look–the one where he pushes everything deep down and hopes no one will see. But there’s too much and it always bleeds over, leaking out of the cracks.

“Pollux…”

He murmurs and Pollux disarms, shoulders slouching and his leg relaxes, breath leaving him in one long drawn out sigh.

“I don’t wanna talk about it, okay? Don’t make me…” Pollux looks over at him, honesty in eyes turned stormy grey in the scant light.

Ortega doesn’t press, forces a smile and he gingerly reaches up, picking a curl away from his face and tucking it back behind his ear, wanting to let his fingers linger, brush across the scars against his scalp. He doesn’t, letting his hand fall back to his leg.

“Why did you stay?”

Pollux looks away when Ortega asks instead, pulling his leg up onto the bed, foot resting on the edge. Ortega watches him think, the faint outline of his profile in the barely there light, hair a fluffy halo of deep auburn. Shoulders drawn in tight, too much tension this early, being awake so soon. He wishes he could take that tension, run his fingers between his shoulder blades and down his back, trace his spine, hitch his thin thigh up onto his hip just to hold him closer. Kiss his forehead and the bridge of his nose, the edge of his jaw and further down his neck just to keep him close–keep him close because without it he’ll up and disappear once more. Like a dream he can’t bear to wake up from even as the sky turns steadily brighter, a lull back to wakefulness.

“Guess I didn’t wanna leave.” Pollux’s voice brings Ortega back and he’s looking at him, wrinkles around his grey eyes like he most definitely caught him staring and is caught between a rebuttal and letting it slide.

“I’m glad you didn’t want to leave.” Ortega murmurs hesitantly, like his words are a sledgehammer and Pollux is a glass menagerie and one of these days he’ll bend too much, push too hard and he’ll shatter; a cup of coffee too full, a shaken can of soda waiting to explode.

“I could leave.” There’s almost not enough teasing in his tone, his words almost true and Ortega’s heart skips a beat, stalling with a hiccuping breath lodging in his throat.

“No, please. Stay.” He murmurs, his hand finding Pollux’s, pulling it close and he runs his thumb across the back of his scarred knuckles, the roughness of the skin there.

Pollux stalls for a breath before his lips break into a brief smile, squeezing Ortega’s hand.

“I was just teasing…I’ll stay.” He mumbles, scooting Ortega’s arm to worm his way back against him once more. Ortega wraps his arms around him, pressing his face into Pollux’s stomach, arms sliding up to cradle him, rest between his shoulder blades, fingertips along his spine. Pollux combs his fingers through his hair, along his temples where the grey is growing in and further still, resting against the back of his neck. The first port of the many that line his spine.

“Will you stay long?” Ortega whispers and there’s a gentle sigh above him, his stomach deflating.

“No, but I’ll stay for now.”


	17. stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt 47. stars | retribution era

“You remember that party we went to? The New Years one.”

Pollux can count on one hand the number of events he went to back in the day and only ever one New Years party.

“The one at the fancy house up in the hills?” Pollux asks regardless, blowing smoke out of the corner of his lips, and Ortega nods.

“The one where I had to go find you all on your lonesome on the patio.”

“I needed a smoke and you know someone was going to throw a fit if I smoked in that house.” Pollux rolls his eyes, folding his arms and he carefully avoids the lit end of the cigarette, resting his hip against the short wall encircling the roof of Ortega’s apartment complex. 

The whole house was like a museum with highbrow large fancy art decorating tall concrete walls, expanses of glass windows overlooking Los Diablos down below. There had even been a fancy grand piano in the corner of all things. It had been picture perfect, yes, but it was all rather tempered by thoughts of other parties--east coast parties. Parties from back before, when they weren’t parties and they were missions.

“I dunno, there was that one lady who spilled red wine all over that silk or fur carpet near the couch.” Ortega reminds him and Pollux can’t help but laugh, a half snorting sort of thing and he shakes his head, knocking old memories away.

“Who was that even?”

Pollux looks over at Ortega and he clicks his tongue with a shrug. “Someone who got stuck with a cleaning bill, that’s who.”

Pollux grins, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette before he takes another long drag.

“Weren’t the hors d'oeuvres really shitty?” He asks and Ortega laughs, a smile on his face, the hazy orange street lights from below casting a glare across the underside of his face.

“They were good! I just don’t think you had the stomach for them.” He teases and Pollux rolls his eyes, playfully pushing Ortega’s shoulder and quietly telling him to stop.

“But...I do remember you wore that cute little black dress with the glittery front and long sleeves with the deep open back on it...”

Pollux’s groan cuts through his words and he shoots him a withering glare. Ortega laughs—one of those deep in his chest kinds; the ones Pollux still remembers, the kind that bounce around in his head for hours—the ones that bounce around in his memories for years.

“You oogled me the whole night when you thought I wasn’t looking, you ass.” He huffs and Ortega’s still grinning, leaning up against the low stone wall encircling the flat roof. Pollux rests his hands on the wall next to him, shifting off of his hip that aches.

“You did look really good in that dress.” Ortega leans closer to him and Pollux shakes his head, blowing smoke out of his mouth and the cool wind sweeps it away down to the street below. He avoids looking down, instead looking up at the deep black sky above. It’s clear for once, an unseasonable rain scrubbing the smog out of the air, leaving the sky clean and bright.

“You didn’t tell me that...” Pollux looks back at him, fussing with one of the long strings on his hoodie, pulling it even with the other one.

“Didn’t think you wanted to hear it.” He says quietly and Pollux’s lips purse. Ortega plays with his thumbnail, rough hands clasped together. He’s looking straight out, not down or up, like there’s something interesting in the hundreds of other office and apartment windows blinking at them.

“True. Sentinel and Anathema did say it enough.” Pollux rolls his eyes, hiding a smile behind another drag of a cigarette. 

“Didn’t mean I didn’t want to hear you say it.” He admits before he can stop the words and Ortega turns, giving that look. A fond glance and his lips curl up, a look that sends butterflies fluttering in his stomach and he leans in closer, his voice warm and bright. Pollux catches his breath and holds it tight, lips pursing into a narrow line.

“I can say it now: you look very nice tonight.” 

Pollux pushes him away again with another groan, shuffling away a half step and he deflates. Stay just out of reach because even though he is smoking, he knows Ortega wouldn’t hesitate to kiss him and he doesn’t know if he can handle that right now.

“Asshole.” Pollux huffs and takes another drag to hide his shaking hands, soothing the sparks cascading through his stomach. He’s only saying it because he’s swimming in one of those crappy merch sweatshirts Ortega threw at him before they climbed up to the roof, saying it was “cold outside” and that “he needed more than just his light jacket.” Even though his apartment is only about twelve stories and its summer, it’s high enough to catch the cool breeze and Pollux isn’t about to admit that Ortega was right.

“Pollux,” Ortega’s smiling just so, “dress or no dress, you do look very nice.” It’s genuine, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes and he looks far too young, far too much like how he looked at him at that last New Years party back in ‘13 and....

“Okay, okay...” Pollux surrenders with a wave of his hand, pushing the cuff of the sleeve back up his arm. “Enough with the flattery, lover boy. Please.”

The last word is softer than he expected, gingerly reaching out to briefly touch Ortega’s cheek, fingers just a ghost before pulling away. Before Ortega can reach out and touch him in return, gently cup his wrist and his fingers would find his, knitting them together.

This is what they always do, what they’re used to doing. It’s familiar and foreign—like staring a reflection he knows the details of, but the whole picture is so strange. Had he really changed that much if he still remembers how this goes? Are they both so different now, half a foot between them when before they would’ve been pressed together, hip to his head resting against his shoulder. Running his fingers down the wires under Ortega’s skin, from elbow to wrist.

But there’s been things they’ve done, things Pollux from before would only dream of, and promptly shoved in a box to never think about ever again. Maybe a peek or a sip once or twice, but he’s downed the whole bottle and still he wants more. It’s greedy is what it is—utterly selfish. Maybe he should feel bad, but how can he when Ortega is so willing to give?

He can’t be blamed for taking what’s offered. And oh how Ortega offered—oh how he gave.

“You know....” Ortega clears his throat, and Pollux shifts in place, thankful the dark light hides most of his flushed face. “It was nice to see you something that wasn’t just the suit. See you all dressed up.”

Pollux makes a sound half between a chuckle and a snort. “Shocked everyone that I had, you know, other things I could wear. A life outside of wearing a suit and running around with you lot.” He gruffly mumbles, leaning back against the wall, shoulder almost brushing Ortega.

“As much as sleeping in a dumpster counts as having a life outside of work.” Ortega’s teasing and Pollux cringes, looking at him with a raised brow.

“It was a nice dumpster, thank you very much.” Pollux shoots back, smoke falling out of his lips in little clouds before he blows the rest of it away, flicking embers off and they die as they spiral towards the street below.

“It was still a dumpster.” Ortega replies in kind and Pollux runs his tongue over the front of his teeth, shaking his head.

“Having a life is more than just where I sleep.” Pollux insists and Ortega chuckles.

“Going to the aquarium whenever you got the chance?” He pokes and Pollux groans again, shaking his head. He doesn’t want those memories drug up, roughly putting out what’s left of the cigarette butt on the top of the wall.

“Oh leave the aquarium out of this, Ricardo...”

He raises his hands in brief surrender, shuffling half a step closer, his shoulder pressing against his.

“Fine...you dragged me up here for more than just reminiscing right?” He asks.

Standing next to the edge of the rooftop and it’s just a faint matter of fact, a blip of a thought in the back of Pollux’s brain. How ironic it is he’s on a roof this time--how close he is to the edge of the building.

Pollux leans back against him and he lifts his eyes to the sky above, squinting. Above the glaze of a million street lights there’s a few stars poking through the night sky—only a few.

Deep in the deserts near the Mexican border, only a shitty one room shack and a ramshackle bed. Car batteries for impromptu charging discarded off into the corner, old canned food with plastic forks sticking out of them abandoned. The insistent biting flies, moths crowding around the shitty battery power lamps.

Sitting outside of that shack, watching and waiting for any signs that the Void was going to make their move. They had compromised on Pollux taking the first watch for half of the night and Ortega would take the second half. Or at least that had been the plan. Ortega was supposed to be sleeping, but no.

He was sitting outside with him too, slumped over in rusty old folding chair, eyes half closed and glazed over with pain, staring into the inky black desert. Said he couldn’t sleep, that he was too bruised to lay in on that shitty mattress on the floor. He wasn’t lying--Pollux had seen the riot of purple and blues already blooming down his back (and promptly ignored the way seeing him hurt made him feel). Patched the cuts on his face with little butterfly closures and tamed his matted dirty hair the best he could.

He’d told him he needed to sleep, said that it didn’t matter if it hurt, that they’d be worse off if he didn’t get some shut eye. He was capable of watching by himself. He remembered Ortega’s eyes turning hard, the tightening of his jowls and fists, leg bouncing. Said something like “I’m going to sit here and keep watch. I don’t need any goddamn sleep.”

Pollux remembered his tone more than anything, the sharp cut of his words; how for a moment he sounded exactly how he should sound: the Marshal of the Rangers. The man in charge of seeing that they made it back home and didn’t die out in this awful desert to some villain. The Rangers always get their man.

How the next moment he just sounded scared--terrified senseless. Hands clenched to stop the shaking, teeth grinding.

Pollux closes his eyes for a moment, opening them back up and he stares at the buildings in front of him, blinking the memories out from behind his eyes.

(Of course he still remembers--he remembers foolishly taking Ortega’s hand and standing, stepping close and pulling him in tight, hand curling against the back of his head; other things too, lips tasting like sand and--

“I just wanted a smoke. You were the one who told me to take a hoodie and came along anyway.” Pollux replies quickly, grabbing his pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. It flickers to life and he ignores Ortega’s knowing stares. The thousands of “what if” words squeezed in the nooks and crannies between them, leaving them all unspoken because it’s a dance they’ve done a dozen times--a hundred times.

“How many more are you gonna smoke?” Ortega asks instead and Pollux doesn’t resist as he pulls him in close to his chest and he buries his face into his shirt, the rich smell of warm cologne and ozone tickling his nose.

Minding the cigarette burning away, he lets himself be held, lets Ortega lean down and kiss the top of his head, his forehead as he tilts his head up, the tip of his nose..

“Just one more.”


End file.
